


Living Memory

by ouro_boros



Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: (which is to be expected), Blanket Permission, Death, Found Family, Gen, Nightmares, Podfic Welcome, an overabundance of dust, suffocation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28148046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ouro_boros/pseuds/ouro_boros
Summary: Funn Funerals is a centuries old family business. For nothing disturbing to have risen over the years would be ridiculous.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 19
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Living Memory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamjar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamjar/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I saw you like speculative fic and this sort of... spiraled out from there. I hope you enjoy, this was a blast to write <3
> 
> [You can find me at oury-boros on Tumblr!](https://oury-boros.tumblr.com/)

Spending time at Funn Funerals had its difficulties.

From the first step through the door, any rational visitor would get the impulse to turn right back around and find somewhere better to pass their afternoon. Dead loved ones be damned, one could hardly _breathe_ in that building.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, that impulse usually had to be ignored. No one came to Funn Funerals for the heck of it; certain things will always have to get done, one way or another. At least service was ruthlessly efficient.

Still, once the opportunity came to shun the business entirely, not a soul in Piffling Vale would blame any other soul for taking it. The air in Funn Funerals bordered on deadly. To voluntarily breathe it for any period of time was utter madness.

The mystery of why Eric Chapman seemed immune to it was solved daily, in a thousand voices in a thousand locations (or, taking into account the population and size of Piffling, a thousand voices in the same four locations, over and over).

It wasn’t a topic of discussion or anything—the ponderers pondered for a second or two and moved on. Perhaps an effect of the Funn air: one forgot the smell of it, the horrible feeling it sent through their body, the sudden awareness that no species could hope to be free of hunters so long as they existed within the bounds of the universe… and remembered a general unpleasantness wholly attributable to the proprietors. And, well, if there was one person who had earned all the irritation he wanted, it was Eric. Despite the continuously passing curiosity, Piffling residents were happy to let him breathe that air.

Excluding, of course, the residents most impacted, who could have done without his frequent presence.

* * *

“I don’t know how you stand it.”

Eric, who had just been grazing the edge of sleep, opened his eyes to see Georgie glaring down at him, spoon of strawberry mousse in her mouth. He resigned himself to what was sure to be a confusing and unsatisfying conversation, and sat up.

“How I stand what?” he asked, wearing his polite smile (Georgie edition: no teeth. The involvement of teeth seemed to set her on edge in a way he was desperately learning to avoid).

“The air in here. I mean, I’ve worked for the Funns for _ages_ , and I still have to take breaks or I feel like I’m choking. But you can just waltz on in and take a nap.”

“Or _try_ to anyway,” he corrected, quietly petulant. Napping hadn’t actually been his goal in today’s visit, but then the building seemed empty, and that floor was always so inviting…

“You don’t even wake up screaming.”

He furrowed his brow.

“Should screaming be expected?”

“Eric, if I spend too long here, _I_ wake up screaming. Went on for a whole month once, and I’m great at maintaining my sleep schedule.”

“Oh. Actually, I do wake up screaming sometimes. No connection to the Funns, of course. It's been a problem ever since… well, that was a long—” 

“You have _noticed_ the air though?”

Georgie’s voice then hadn’t changed all that much, but it did tell Eric he’d been working in the wrong tone.

“I have,” he reassured her with no idea what there was to be reassuring about. “It is very dusty.”

She looked disturbed. Disgusted? Disgruntled.

Panicking, he said, “Not that it’s not clean. I’m sure everything’s, uh.” He glanced at the floor, which he knew from experience had already covered his back with a layer of dust half an inch thick. “Spotless.”

She watched him, waiting for something. Then she scoffed, stuck another spoonful in her mouth, and walked away.

Eric was still sitting on the floor. He stayed there for a few minutes, debating the likelihood of his next wake-up turning violent. He ran a finger across the ancient wood and stared at the particles stuck to his skin.

Oddly mesmerizing.

He decided to take his chances. Though Eric thought of himself as a strong-willed man, no one could escape the siren’s song of the Funn Funerals floor. At least, he and Rudyard couldn’t. He would have mused on that distinction as he fell asleep, but it didn’t take that long.

* * *

Any Piffling resident asked to describe Eric Chapman’s hair would eventually arrive at the word “blond,” though some might get more poetic about it than others. It was an easy observation. Even someone who had never seen a follicle of his hair, as long as they had spoken to him for a minute or more, could reasonably guess its color. Eric was simply the sort of man who had blond hair. That it was such a lovely shade, complimenting his skin tone and making sense of his eyes (which he’d been told would otherwise look a little strange) was pure luck. Well, luck plus a strict care regimen.

It wasn’t an odd thing to notice, therefore, when Eric entered Funn Funerals with his perfectly styled hair its usual shade of warm caramel, and prepared to exit looking downright brunette. 

(Later, when she’d had more time to meditate on it, Antigone would identify the color as a dark champagne.)

“Chapman?”

Eric, slipping on his scarf, looked to the nearest creeping shadow.

“Yes, Antigone?”

“Have you… do you know that, um.”

He waited.

“Your hair,” she managed.

“What about it?”

“It’s, um. Not it’s usual—ah.”

Having caught on, Eric had begun shaking his hair out, eventually finishing the job with gloved fingers.

“There,” he smiled. “Better?”

“Oh! I wasn’t—that is, I didn’t mean—I just wanted to know if you knew.”

“It’d be hard not to. The dust in this place really puts my allergy medication to the test!”

“The… the dust.”

“I’m always coated with it when I leave.”

“Coated in the… dust.”

“Inside and out, I expect!”

He laughed, and before Antigone could properly respond, he left.

* * *

“Dust works,” Rudyard insisted, sorting through sitting positions, looking for the most professional and trust-inspiring one he could come up with. “As far as excuses go, it’s perfect.”

"Yes, _as far as excuses go._ But we can't just let him wander in every day and get covered head to toe if he doesn't _know_ what he's getting covered _in."_

Rudyard stood, testing the practicalities of leaning. Shoulder pressed stiffly to the wall, he snorted.

"Why not? It's his life."

"Exactly! And he doesn't have all the information!"

"What information?" Georgie asked, having just walked in to start her shift.

"Good afternoon, Georgie. Impeccable timing. Tell me, do I look more trustworthy while sitting or standing?"

"You've never looked trustworthy in your life."

"Yes, but which looks _more_ trustworthy?"

"Hm." She considered. "Sitting. You seem taller when you're sitting. What were you talking about?"

Rudyard scowled, but sat back down and answered, "Antigone's insisting we tell Chapman about the 'dust.' I say it's what he deserves for bothering us all the time. If he really hasn't noticed, it's his fault anyway."

Georgie approached his desk, then leaned nonchalantly against it. The pose did suit her much better, not that Rudyard would ever admit it.

"Sounds fair to me," she said.

"How is that fair?" Antigone moaned. "If we dumped a bucket of asbestos on his head whenever he walked through the door, shouldn't we warn him before he starts eating it?"

"You do make a good point," Rudyard said, nodding along. "Why _haven't_ we been covering him in asbestos? Georgie—"

"I know just the place, sir."

"Perfect. Get that started and I'll try a different chair."

They both moved to begin their assigned tasks, but Antigone interrupted with the glass shattering cry, "That's not what I was saying!"

Rudyard and Georgie settled back down, the former appropriately chastised, the latter merely called off.

"Actually," said Georgie, "since it's come up, what _is_ the 'dust?'"

The room, which usually had at least one ominous creaking noise at any given time, went silent. Antigone stared at her. Rudyard pictured Chapman covered in asbestos and cackled.

"You mean you... you don't know?"

"Nope. I did ask once, but you weren't listening, and Rudyard said something weird about the consequences of tardiness."

"That was a joke, I was trying to lighten the mood! Also, you were still fairly new and I wanted to make sure you had your priorities straight."

"Georgie, I can't—I'm so sorry, I just assumed—you have been taking breaks, right? Going on walks, getting plenty of fresh air?"

"'Course I have. My dreams get really weird otherwise."

Antigone's concern was instantly trumped by curiosity. Her eyebrows shot up as she took a step closer to Georgie and leaned in, apparently trying to get a better look at the woman she'd been working with for over a year.

"Really?" she asked, voice hushed. "What sort of dreams?"

Georgie shrugged.

"Ones where I die, mostly. Always feels like I can't breathe. Why?"

The question snapped Antigone away from fascination and back to apologetic worry.

"Sorry, sorry! I've just... I've not heard about dreams before. As a side effect, I mean. I'm much more familiar with... Well. Um. Death."

_"Death?"_

"Suffocation," Antigone clarified, as if that was the issue.

"The only people who die," Rudyard said, "are strangers who wander in, breathe a lot, and don't leave when they should."

Georgie absorbed that information.

"So... Eric."

"Which is why we have to _warn_ him," Antigone insisted. "Just because he seems unaffected doesn't mean he will be forever, and how do you think _that_ funeral will go?"

"Beautifully," answered Rudyard with a wistful sigh.

"Sorry," Georgie interrupted, "unaffected by what, exactly? You still haven't explained."

"Well, it is essentially dust," said Antigone. "Some of it may even be dead skin. We don't really know. Each sample I've taken has had a radically different composition."

Before she could go further down her lane of technicalities, Rudyard seized control.

"This building has had centuries upon centuries worth of corpses in it; they all leave _something_ behind."

"The remnants of the dead," Antigone murmured.

"It used to stay in the mortuary, but over the years, it has spread. The amount has stagnated since Chapman arrived, maybe even shrunk, but it's like he's gotten it all riled up. Just his specialty, I suppose. Making everything worse."

"It's not—it's not _worse,"_ Antigone amended. "The remnants aren't a _problem,_ just... just a hazard."

Georgie nodded, though the reasoning made no sense. Of course Antigone would have a soft spot for this thing.

"And you two are... what, immune?"

Rudyard grinned.

"Yes! We belong here, and it respects that."

"We try to take care of it," said Antigone, sounding like a child begging for a new pet. "At least, we don't disturb it."

Georgie, having long ago made her point with the leaning, hopped up and perched on the desk. Rudyard whined. She ignored him, thinking carefully about her new knowledge.

"So," she began, "if I stop sweeping, will it stop threatening to kill me?"

The twins looked at each other as if silently conferring. Rudyard shrugged.

"Perhaps," he said. "Probably best to stop either way. Sweeping is a waste of time here."

"The remnants have stayed off you for the most part," Antigone mused. "Maybe it doesn't want to actually hurt you."

"You mean, it doesn't usually stay off? Most people I've seen come in don't look like they've been thrown in an ash pit when they leave."

"That only starts after someone's stayed for a while. Though, even then, I've never seen someone attract it like Chapman does."

Georgie hummed.

"Sounds like he should be dead by now."

"In an ideal world, he would be." The statement sparked something in Rudyard the moment it was out of his mouth. "This is my final offer, Antigone: if he starts coughing, I'll tell him it isn't dust. Deal?"

Antigone scowled.

"That's hardly—"

"Final offer, Antigone!"

"Fine! Fine! Let him die, get sent back to prison, see if I care!"

Rudyard, more smug than he had any right to be, leaned back in his seat and proclaimed, "I will!"

"I'm going to my mortuary!"

"Good!"

"Fine!"

She turned on her heel and headed for the door. Then she stopped.

"Georgie," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Will you let me know if your dreams change?"

"Sure thing."

"Thank you."

Request granted, Antigone left.

* * *

Nothing felt quite right the week that Eric disappeared. He'd left some model employees running Chapman's and a note in the window saying he had to take care of some off-island business, and that he'd be back before anyone missed him.

He would have been sad to learn that he was right. Antigone wondered if Rudyard would tell him, but Rudyard was too busy investigating the plot Eric was clearly executing.

When Eric returned, exhausted, he made his way in soft dusk light to the square where he'd made his home. 

Then he opened the door to Funn Funerals. Four heads turned to him, one of which squeaked. He waved.

"Good evening, all!"

Rudyard, unfazed, gestured to the scrapped coffin they had grouped around on the floor.

"As you can see, Chapman, you are interrupting a riveting game of Boggle."

"He's won every round," Antigone grumbled.

"Ah, apologies. Mind if I join?"

"Yes," said Georgie, but he'd already closed the door behind him.

"You're always welcome to a game of Boggle, Chapman," Rudyard answered, a thick layer of theatricality to his voice and a sickly smile on his face. "As long as you don't mind losing."

Eric sat next to Antigone, who mumbled a greeting.

"I reckon I'll be alright. I do have a Countdown teapot back at mine." It wasn't his, but no need to mention that. "I can bring it over some time, if you'd like."

Rudyard humphed as he shoved a pencil and paper in Eric's direction. Well, a piece of charcoal and a crumpled page with some odd gibberish scribbled around the sides, but nothing he hadn't worked with before.

"Entirely different skill set," Rudyard declared.

"Is it?"

Whatever unique skills Boggle required, Rudyard had them in spades. Eric couldn't have won if he'd tried, which—he'd decided halfway through the fifth round—he had not. Rudyard deserved to win _something,_ right? Eric's loss was a sacrifice. A purposeful, totally avoidable sacrifice.

"Ha _ha!"_ Rudyard cried, victorious over the four player game that had, as evening fell to night, shrunk to two. "How's _that_ feel, Chapman!"

Eric, head empty of taunts after the lengthy game, let himself drop to the floor (not that it was a long way down).

"Who's the loser now, eh? _Who's the loser now!"_

"If I say 'me,'" Eric bargained, "will you let me sleep here?"

Rudyard's victory lap paused.

"What, on the floor?"

"Sure."

"Don't you have some fancy, expensive mattress waiting for you?"

"It won't mind."

"And the... the 'dust?'"

If Eric had been less tired, he might have questioned Rudyard's air quotes. As he was, though, he would say or ignore anything to just collapse into slumber.

"Honestly," he confessed, closing his eyes and spreading his hands across the floor, relishing in the sensation of the particles covering his skin, "I like the dust. Life can be so bright. Vivid and beautiful but... abrasive. This whole week, the whole time I've been gone, I just wished I could curl up here and smother myself in dust. It mutes the world. Sometimes the world really needs muting."

He expected to get kicked out the door. When a minute passed and that didn't happen, he opened his eyes to see if Rudyard had left. Instead, Rudyard looked caught off guard, frowning at Eric.

"Yes," said Rudyard, his tone at odds with his expression. "I understand that. It is peaceful, isn't it?"

Eric grinned.

"Bit like a graveyard," he said.

A few seconds more passed in silence. Then Rudyard cleared his throat.

"Well. There's no blankets to spare, so you'll have to—"

"I have my coat," Eric interrupted. "I'll be fine. It's very soft."

"Of course it is." He stood, knees creaking alarmingly for his age. "I'm going to bed, don't bother me in the morning. Don't die overnight."

"Perfect place for it, though."

"Yes, but that would count as bothering me in the morning."

"Goodnight, Rudyard."

It was the best night of sleep he'd had in years.

* * *

No one in Piffling understood how anyone could ignore the stale air of Funn Funerals, much less for the express purpose of spending time with the inhabitants. The possibility that Eric could simply enjoy both never occurred to them. And when his hair permanently dimmed to a dark champagne, no one could come up with a reason to blame the Funns.

They still did, of course. They'd never let a little thing like evidence get in their way.


End file.
